Thicker Then Water
by Blue and Simbelmyne
Summary: Far into the future of ME a war rages on.As peace finally falls,a new threat has been revealed,one of magic and time travel,that exists to serve but one goalto end the line of Kings.Now his g.grandson must travel back to save his line.
1. Prologue

**Title:** Thicker Then Water

**Author: **Blue

**Description: **Far into the future of Arda a war rages on. As peace finally falls, a new threat has been revealed – one of magic and time travel – that has exists to serve but one goal – to end the line of Kings. Now one of Aragorn's own grandson must journey back as well and prevent history from being altered – and his existence from being erased.

* * *

**Prologue **

_War has come again…_

Demons of the dark are not necessary for the presence of war – only the existence of man. Under the reign of King Aragon IV war has torn apart the long lasting peace founded by Aragorn II.

The Black Easterlings – called this because of the black uniforms of mourning they wear in memory of the large number of able bodied men that fell at the hands of the Host of the West - resentful of the peace terms forced upon them in defeat have spear-headed an attack against the Kingdom. At their side are various tribes of the Wild Men (especially present were the tribes of the Haradrim, a long counted ally of the Easterlings and enemy of the West; eventually using Near Harad that to attack Southern Gondor) that had survived isolated in the mountains and Eastlands.

They attacked first the Grey Easterlings; the Easterlings who accepted Aragorn II offer of citizenship and over the years incorporated themselves into the Kingdom by farming along the outskirts closest to Rhûn. The Black Easterlings slaughtered all they came across, piling their heads outside the main entrances to the settlements in an act of both intimidation and revenge.

To the King they sent the hands and eyes of Seer-Yaban, the Grand Vizier of the Grey Easterlings and the Queen Onya's younger brother. The Black Easterlings carried a special hate for the Queen's line, as it was her ancestor Seer-Sacal the Great – a holy man renowned for the accuracy of his visions and intuition – who had led so many of the Easterlings into citizenship.

For many years the war remained stagnate – with neither side gaining or losing much land but experiencing high numbers of casualties. The stalemate ended when the Black Easterlings were reinforced by the remnants of the Sauron's Army, long driven into the far reaches of the Eastlands. Settling around scattered oases their numbers had flourished under the protection of the great eastern deserts. When the Black Easterlings sent ambassadors to the various tribal chieftains seeking the honoring of old alliances and retribution, the tribes' warriors took up their crude weapons and surged west.

Quickly the balance of the years was broken and the Dark Hosts swarmed over the Reunited Kingdom. Within a year they had taken Minas Tirith – allowing none to exit or enter its walls. Plague and famine killed hundreds of the White City's citizens. Had it not been for the valiant actions of the Resistance (especially notable when the unit fell under the leadership of Prince Eärnur II) and its hidden supply lines, many more would have been lost.

The King led his family into the wilds, instructing that until his three sons came of age they were to follow the example of their Chieftain ancestors, and cast aside their nobility in exchange for the protection of nameless Rangers.

Thus the Princes Aragon V, Eärnur II and Arathorn IV became the Dúnedain children Haleth, Nuri and Hallas. To ensure that the line would not be broken, the three boys were kept separate at virtually all times. The Queen and their youngest child, the Princess Lorien now called Ana, hid amongst the few nomadic tribes of Grey Easterlings that had survived.

Rohan was invaded within the following years and the Black Easterlings placed great hardships upon the Horse Lords – burning crops and slaughtering stock. The light coloring of the people there made them popular as slaves and countless numbers of fair haired men, women and boys were sent back into the Eastlands.

The tide of the war changed again with the arrival of the Dwarves - come at long last to fulfill a long standing pact of alliance. They came from the reclaimed Kingdoms of Moria and under the Lonely Mountain – under the rule of Kings Durin XII and Dáin V. Though few in number compared to the Host of the West, the Dwarves gave much needed hope to weary fighters and inspired great fear into the Dark Hosts.

Coupled with a harsh winter that struck the Black Easterling forces severely, the Hosts of the West were capable of driving the enemy back towards Near Harad. The outcome of the war was decided once again before Minas Tirith and Osgiliath (ever referred to as the Trice Fallen City after the war) in a lengthy battle that lasted nearly a week. Later named the Battle for the White City, it proved to be the most epic battle witnessed sense the Battle of the Plennor Fields.

Three months after the battle, the Black Easterlings and their allies have surrendered.

* * *

_The lands have changed…_

The effects of the elongated war affairs have once again left the great country of Gondor devastated and on the rebound. With the White City finally freed from the oppression of the Dark Hosts, the people slowly begin to pick up the pieces of their one prosperous lives. Lead by King Aragorn IV and the young Steward Ecthelion III, the country is hopeful and optimistic – some go as far as to call the King the reincarnation of his legendary namesake; Aragorn II.

The semi-independent state of Rohan has been hit the hardest, outside of the siege-castle Hornberg, almost all standing buildings have been burned and destroyed by the Black Beasts. The greatest loss to moral was the leveling of Edoras and the loss of Meduseld.. In an attempt to bolster his people's spirits, King Léod II has started plans for the golden halls rebirth – stronger and more beautiful than before. Despite his intentions – a near constant famine (caused by the destruction of farming lands and excess slaughtering of stock) ravishes the state serves as a drain on his peoples moral.

Whole generations of men have been lost – it is difficult to find many men who are unscathed from the war over twenty-three. There is an overwhelming amount of youthful hands willing to rebuild the kingdom - but few elders to train them.

Despite this, the Dúnedain once again walk the borders of the Reunited Kingdom unchallenged and peace seems to have returned at long last.

* * *

Read on please!  



	2. All Is Not As It Seems

**Title:** Thicker Then Water

**Author: **Blue

**Description: **Far into the future of Arda a war rages on. As peace finally falls, a new threat has been revealed – one of magic and time travel – that has exists to serve but one goal – to end the line of Kings. Now one of Aragorn's own grandson must journey back as well and prevent history from being altered – and his existence from being erased.

**AN: **Since we never really learn much about the 'wild' races of men in Arda, I took some liberalities. Don't worry though - nothing too crazy.

* * *

Thicker Then Water

**Chapter 1 **_- _All Is Not As It Seems

_Part 1:__Peace at Last_

The streets were drowning in silver and black. At least that was what it seemed like from Arathorn's view. He leaned quietly against the side of a shop, watching the celebrations throughout the city. Every available surface was covered with the banner of his family. The streets themselves were covered with various flowers and to his great amusement – people were dancing freely through them.

So many different songs were being sung that it was impossible to tell what was really being said. Even the music of the soldier's parade was lost in the mess. Yet it didn't matter – peace had come at last.

Peace. It was a foreign concept to him. The harsh years of his young life had been filled with only war. As if on cue, his shoulder protested and he forced himself into a standing position. He rolled the stiff muscle, rubbing it as he stepped from the shadows.

The girls who had been throwing flowers over one of the viewing walls froze when they saw him, their eyes becoming comically large. For a moment the trio stared at each other, a half smile taking Arathorn's face at their shock. In front of them a little girl tottered across the wall top, throwing flowers over with great pleasure. Sensing the attention was no longer on her actions, the little one turned to stare at them.

One of them stuttered to life at the action. "Prince Arathorn! Forgive us! We did not see you!"

Arathorn waved their apology away, reaching over to take the child off the wall top. She clung to him, her small fist overshadowed by the white blooms she carried. She thrust them at him and Arathorn jerked back to avoid being smacked in the face.

"Are those for me little one?" The child nodded and Arathorn took them carefully. "You have my thanks." Handing the child over to one of the girls he warned them about letting her play on the wall tops before waving a goodbye.

Arathorn twirled the flowers in his hand, staring at the round blooms in thought. There was a cheer in front of him and Arathorn glanced up. A large crowd of revilers filled one of the many well square. Quietly he slipped into a spot where he was less likely to be spotted; he'd never comfortable in crowds, he had not the experience with them that his elder brothers had. A clearly inebriated man climbed on the well's square walls, gripping the wooden frame as he swayed.

"To our Lords, who have led us unwavering – never doubting that victory was upon us! Even when we were not as strong hearted!" The cheer that erupted caused Arathorn to smirk. It was always good to know he was appreciated. "To the Reunited Kingdom! May it never fall again!"

A shiver ran down his spine and for a moment the screaming revilers were forgotten. A terrible feeling had taken him at those words. Pursing his lips, Arathorn slipped into one of the cities many alleyways. Perhaps he was just being paranoid.

A sigh escaped him as he ran a hand through his hair. What was wrong with him? Could he not accept peace now that it had finally arrived?

But even as he admonished himself the feeling settled itself into the pit of his stomach. Perhaps, he mused darkly as stopped to stare at himself in a level puddle, he truly could not. Arathorn had never known anything but the life of a warrior. What would become of him with no war to fight?

True, he was a prince. But unlike his other siblings his future was not locked into place. Long before he was born the line of the monarchy was secured. If it served to fail in Aragorn, surely it would not in Eärnur. Even Lorien – as young as she was – had a marriage to the Steward to look forward to. Though the two had yet to take to each other, Arathorn felt they would get along well. Ecthelion was a fine lad. Arathorn snorted. Undoubtedly, his good looks would harm little.

But he – he had something very rare to those of royalty. Arathorn had a choice. Whatever roles he might have been expected to take once were gone now with the war. His mind skipped ahead to the future – when his father was but shadow and dust. Arathorn could easily see Aragorn on the marble thrown, black hair parted and braided as he oversaw matters of the kingdom. By his side would be Eärnur (Seer-Eärnur by that point), garbed head to toe in both the purple and gold as the Grand Vizir of the Grey Easterlings and the black and silver of his birth right.

Lorien would be with child (if she did not have a few already) and taken hold of the Healing House through either her husband or brother. A smirk twisted his lips at the thought of the thirteen-year-old running the Healing House. It would come to pass – Arathorn was sure of it. One would have to be blind to not see her gift.

But he could not see himself. Where would he stand?

"Hallas!" Arathorn glanced up in surprise at the sound of the name, though he should not have been. It would be most unwise to shout his birth name out in the mist of such merry-making. Arathorn could half imagine himself being flattened the crowd in their attempt to share their joy.

A small smile grew as he watched the voice's owner attempt to cross the street to reach him. He had known Devor virtually all of his life – the General had been his tutor in arms since he could stand.

When he first rode into battle, it had been under Devor's banner. Without question the only reason he had survived that week was because of the General's watchful eye. At thirteen he had been skittish in battle and though he made numerous mistakes he had paid only for one. Absent mindedly he ran his finger across the thin white scar that traveled along his left jawbone. He could still hear Devor's chiding voice;

'Mayhap it will teach you to keep your left guard up my Lord.'

Arathorn could hardly keep the smile off his face as the General grew more and more frustrated with the throng of people. Finally he stepped from them, muttering angrily under his breath as he approached.

"Devor, I do believe that was quite crude." Arathorn admonished as he gripped the older man's forearm in greeting.

The General snorted. "I've seen Orcs more organized."

"I take it you've come to retrieve me then?" Arathorn asked with a chuckle, his feet already leading him towards the palace.

"The feast started an hour ago your highness." Devor said softly, glancing around to assure that none was around them. "I do believe the guard would enjoy being privy to how it is you and your siblings seem to constantly be escaping the palace."

"Tis it not sad that we are forced to escape our own home?" He asked dramatically, his hand coming to rest over his heart. Devor's jaw tightened in annoyance.

"Fine, you four play your games. What will you do if an unfriendly light finds these secret ways?" Devor asked as they began to climb one of the many stairways that would take them to the top tier.

"I thought we were in peace?" Arathorn mused. Devor sent him a sharp look of annoyance. "Be calm old friend, I shall apologize to the guard once I return."

Devor seemed to find his words of great amusement and laughed over them for a while before draping an arm over the Prince's shoulder. Arathorn resisted the urge to wince as the stronger man's hand gripped his pained shoulder.

"Old friend?' You talk as if you were nigh on seventy, yet was it not you that had his sixteenth birthday but a month ago?"

"Ah but I carry the body of someone thrice my age." Arathorn muttered darkly, gently removing the older man's grip from his shoulder. The words stopped the older man in his steps. When Arathorn glanced at him question, he found Devor watching him thoughtfully.

"Aye," The General said softly after a moment, "Aye. You and your brothers carry wounds that you should not at your age. I was at least three years older then Aragorn is now when I first saw battle. And he at twenty has seen almost half as many as I. And you I fear; have seen far too many."

Arathorn shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny of his elder. He had not meant to call up dark subjects on such a merry hour. Mentally he rebuked himself; just because he could not find harmony must he spread his unease?

"My Lord Arathorn," Devor said softly after a moment, the formality of the words catching Arathorn off. "I can not express how impressed your men are with you three." A hot blush spread up the back of his neck and to his ears like wild fire. Never before had such a complement escaped his mentor's lips.

"Come, come now!" Arathorn said cheerfully, saving face and returning to his climb up the stairs. "We have labored hard and longed, let us enjoy this peace we have reaped!"

"Words well spoke my Prince," Devor said merrily as he climbed behind him. "Words well spoken indeed."

* * *

The feast was well on its way by the time they arrived. Devor quietly excused himself and found his way over to his wife's table. For a moment Arathorn stood uncomfortably, accepting the pleasantries thrown his way. When the line of greeters finally slowed to a trickle, Arathorn excused himself and made his way to his brother's sides. 

"I see you have been apprehended." Eärnur said softly as he watched the dancing crowd in front of them. Arathorn sighed dramatically before taking the wine glass his brother offered.

He took a delicate sip before throwing his elder brothers a sadden glaze. "We all do what we must."

Apparently the timing of his joke was impeccable as Aragorn snorted into his wine, spilling it across his face.

"Truly then," The crown Prince said dryly as he cleaned his face with his handkerchief. "May I be the first one to thank you for the blessing of your time."

"Aragorn!" Eärnur gasped, yanking the handkerchief away from him. "Is that _lace_? I never knew you were so sensitive!"

"Be silent fool!" Aragorn's face was red as yanked the handkerchief back and stuffed it awkwardly away. "It was a gift."

Eärnur's eyebrows were almost hidden by his hair line as they shot upwards at the news. "My, my - does our future King have a Queen in mind?"

"Quiet!" Aragorn hissed.

"Hm, it was from Lady Imrid was it not?" Arathorn pressed his finger against his chin in thought. "I do believe she has fair hair does she not Eärnur?" The eldest was nearly maroon at this point.

"How did you-"

"He must not like her very much though, to accept her present with such…_fervor_." Truthfully, Arathorn had come upon the moment quite by accident. He had been traveling through the gardens when he had stumbled upon the gaggle of eligible women that stalked his brother hiding behind one of the many hedge walls. Curious to what could be holding their attention with such rapture he had peered over in time to see the exchange.

Eärnur was staring at Aragorn in open shock. "Are you mad? Those women are insane! Do you have a death wish for the Lady?"

Arathorn laughed at the open truth in his brother's words. While the White City had only been retaken for a little over four months the court had somehow managed to return as if it had never been in disbanded. In fact, he would argue that it came back far stronger then before. The power of gossip was a strange and powerful thing, especially in the hands of the women of the court. Lorien wove it around her like a weapon – within days of returning she had established a pecking order with her at the top.

She also made it quite clear that their Grey Easterling heritage was never to be spoken of in anything but a tender tone – Lorien would not permit any mocking of her line. Most fiercely nipped were any rumors that arose surrounding Eärnur's 'mystical powers'. In truth the gift was not nearly as strong in Eärnur as it was in their mother. The Prince sometimes saw glimpses of the future but nothing on the level of what Queen Onya experienced. No, Eärnur's specialty lay in being an empath. He once confessed to being capable of telling what every guard in top tiers of the city felt at any given moment.

It made him an immensely powerful political tool – especially as a negotiator.

"I was at unaware that I had an audience." Aragorn answered with a growl, sending a leveling glare Arathorn's way. A familiar black haired, brown eyed darling spun outside the corner of his eye and Arathorn turned to watch.

"Lorien looks quite taking to night." He murmured, watching the enthusiasm of the youth that lead her across the floor. Arathorn's lips twisted in amusement at the line of dance partners that awaited her attention.

"Yes," Aragorn said darkly. "We will have to do something about that soon."

Arathorn hummed his agreement as his sister laughed gaily across the room, spinning happily. His eyes glanced to the empty thrown.

"I'm afraid Mother has already retired for the night – father has left to see her to bed." Eärnur said softly, finishing off his wine before setting it on a nearby serving table. "I'm sure she would not mind a visit from you tomorrow morning."

Arathorn nodded slightly. He did not need to know Eärnur the way he did to hear the lie in that statement. Their mother was hardly aware of anything.

It was said that when the Seer-Yaban's eyes and hands had been brought to their father, the page that carried it was at unawares of what he was carrying. Upon the discovery of its gruesome contents, the page dropped the basket in shock and the eyes of Yaban rolled out. The eyes came to a stop in front of his mother – whose gift allowed her to recognize them instantly as her brothers.

As she stared into the dead eyes of Yaban, she had a powerful vision that left her in a restless sleep that lasted for three days. When she awoke from it, it was quite obvious that she had lost her mind. Since that day Queen Onya rarely spoke but instead spent her days staring off into the distance. Arathorn wondered for a moment where it was his mother went – was she seeing the future? The present? If the legends from the Grey Easterlings were to believe she could even be somewhere in the past.

Wherever it was, Arathorn thought darkly as he sipped his wine, it held enough sway to keep her from her children.

He could feel Eärnur's glaze on him. While the empath had admitted that it was difficult for him to read anyone who shared his blood line, Arathorn couldn't help but feel an invasion of privacy. Spitefully he amplified the feeling and coupled it with an annoyed glare

Eärnur only shrugged in response. Not for the first time uncomfortable with his brother's intensity, Arathorn returned his attention on the dancers.

If there could be one thing about his brother that honestly startled Arathorn it would have be the dark brown eyes that he and Lorien shared. Symbols of their Easterling decent, it set them apart from the common grey and blue eyes that traveled through most bloodlines. For Eärnur it added another dimension of intensity – matched with his natural impassive demeanor it was nearly impossible to tell what his brother was feeling.

Lorien was dancing with someone new – someone who apparently didn't seem to think that the current placement of his hand was dangerously low. Arathorn narrowed his eyes as he caught the attention of the young noble. Instantly the hand crept higher – only to slide back down moments later.

"Look at that!" Aragorn hissed after a moment, disbelief lacing his voice. "Fondling her like she was a prized mare!" Arathorn couldn't help but chuckled at the analogy.

"She's engaged Aragorn, not dead." Even as he said this Eärnur's eyes never left his sister's twirling form. "Lorien is fully capable of handing herself - we have seen to that. She is coming into her own; we must allow her space to grow."

"You'll make a fine mother one day."

"Shut up Arathorn."

"He dares!" Aragorn set his glass down upon the table with a threatening thud as the noble lad begged the Princess for another dance.

"Be calm brother. Look," Eärnur nodded towards the entryway, "Here comes Ecthelion now."

Clad in the colors of the King and the House of the Stewards the black haired, blue eyed teenager cut a striking figure. At fourteen, he was the youngest Steward in the history of the Kingdom to take his office without a regent-aid. Despite this, Ecthelion stood tall.

"He wears it well." Arathorn said softly in approval.

"Aye," Aragorn said darkly as he watched Ecthelion handle the officials around him. "Too young."

"Far too young." Eärnur agreed. Aragorn let out a sound of approval as the young Lord nearly tripped over himself as he spotted the Steward. He spoke something hastily to the Princess before retreating to the other side of the room.

"He is no blushing youth," Arathorn warned as Ecthelion took his place with Lorien, leading the couples into the next dance. He had fought with the young Steward in the Battle for the White City and what he had seen had impressed him. "He has a quick mind - he will not fail."

"We will not allow it." Eärnur amended as he accepted another glass of wine from a passing servant. "Ah, father has returned."

King Aragorn IV was a tall, stocky man with a fair, abet weathered, face. Aged by years of battle and the rough life that was a Ranger, he seemed far older then four and eighty years. His once raven hair was heavily peppered with grey and as he crossed the room to his thrown a distinct limp could be noticed.

As he stiffly seated himself onto his thrown, he called for his children to join him. Lorien pranced up the stairs and into her father's arms, slipping easily onto his lap. Aragorn took his place directly to the right of the thrown, while Eärnur stood to the left. For a moment Arathorn hesitated on the stairs, unsure of where it is he should go.

Once again, it seemed that everyone had a place but him.

"Come to me Arathorn." One thing that could never change about his father, Arathorn mused, was the subtle command that the King carried in voice that few – if any – could disobey. Arathorn stood directly in front of his father, shifting his stiff left shoulder slightly in an attempt to loosen it.

The action, however slight, did not go unnoticed from his father.

"Fair one of my heart," King Aragon said softly to Lorien, "It seems that Ecthelion does not quite know what to do with himself. Perhaps you should go and keep him company?"

Lorien's frown was evident as she turned to stare at the Steward. As if the little Princess's glaze held heat Ecthelion's head snapped in their direction. Upon finding all five royals staring at him a disconcerted look flashed across his face before disappearing behind a schooled calm.

"I…suppose." Lorien said stiffly after a moment. Pecking her father on the check she slid off his lap and made her way over to her betrothed. Arathorn couldn't help but note that he'd seen men in line to gallows look gayer then his sister. When Arathorn looked back at the throne he was flustered to find all three sets of eyes staring at him rather intently. And in an instant Arathorn knew what it was Ecthelion had felt. He fought the urge to fidget.

"Your shoulder still ails you my son?"

"Now and then father."

The King evaluated him for a moment, then; "You are my youngest son Arathorn. And sometimes I fear I have done a great injustice to you."

"I do not believe so father." Arathorn stomped down the irritation that was growing in his breast. Why was everyone behaving so strangely today?

"You do not?" The King paused for a breath, "I sent you into war far younger then your brothers – many advised me heavily against it."

"I have survived it." He could not stop the edge that irritation had added to his voice. Why this worry? Why now? Never was it spoken of while the war raged. Had he not served his duty well? Had he not led the troops through victories – and defeats – even when he could offer nothing more then his persona? He had gained renown as a warrior and commander – was that not enough proof of his strength?

He was not the only youth called to fight on the battlefields – the war that was fought in the last few years called for such actions. Look at Ecthelion, made a war veteran and a Steward in one day. So why these questions? These insinuations of their weakness? Had they not both proved themselves men? Arathorn swore that surely he, at least, had.

A strange emotion filled his father's eyes as he watched him – and Arathorn quickly slipped his face into a calm mask. How much of his thoughts had he shown on his in those few seconds of thoughts? A quick glance at his brothers' face hinted at far too much. His father moved to say more but was interrupted by a page.

"Forgive me my Lord, but the party from the state of Rohan has arrived."

"Yes, yes – one moment." The King stood, gathering his robes around him before turning to look at his sons. "We will speak more about this later."

But they did not and Arathorn spent the rest of the night fuming in a corner, watching as the fireworks bled across the night sky.

* * *

_Part 2: The Shadows That Remain_

Arathorn jolted from his sleep, the dagger he kept under his bed drawn and ready to strike before he could process what had happening. Standing shakily he scanned his quarters for a threat but found none.

Despite this the feeling of danger remained locked in a place. Heaving a sigh Arathorn ran a hand through his hair only to pull it back with a grimace. He was covered in sweat. Sheathing the dagger but unable to convince himself to slip it back into its place beneath his pillow he held it tightly in his hand. He knew in his heart that he had not had a nightmare.

While he could never claim to be remotely near the level his brother had attainted – Arathorn knew to trust his instincts. Rarely had they ever led him wrong. And tonight they were screaming at him. Crossing the room, Arathorn threw open his balcony windows and embraced the night's chill.

Somehow he wasn't surprised to find Eärnur out on the next balcony. If it had been violent enough to wake him up – undoubtedly the empath had felt far more then he. For a moment they sat in silence, both watching the ever stretching field and the Trice Fallen City.

"Aragorn was out here earlier." Eärnur said finally. Arathorn's eyes widened in surprise.

"Aragorn _sensed_ something?" It was common knowledge that the crown Prince held the same sensitivity as a stick. For him to felt anything would be a bad omen indeed…

"Hardly," Eärnur dryly, watching Arathorn critically as mounted and balanced on the balcony railing. "He was out with Lady Imrid."

They had a quite laugh at their brother expensive, imagining what the moments between the two must be like. It was nice…to simply talk about such trivial things. It had been a long time sense they last were capable of such light hearted conversations.

Before the White City had fallen they had often met like this. Arathorn had many memories of sneaking past his napping nanny and into the night. Easily he would jump the small distance to Eärnur's balcony and then usually onto Aragorn's. Their father had been furious when he'd discovered their games – forbidding them to ever repeat it.

He needed not to have bothered – the White City had fallen less then a week later – the day before his sixth birthday as it would be.

"Do you believe he is serious?" Arathorn asked as he easily jumped across the balcony gap, landing with a soft thud onto the stone works. Still, Eärnur had been waiting with his arms outstretched. Arathorn sent him a glare as he straightened. "I haven't fallen doing this sense I was five Eärnur."

The empath simply shrugged before turning his attention back to the Trice Fallen City. The look of seriousness that settled on his brother's face disposed any ideas of joking that Arathorn may have entertained.

"What is that you see?" As the silence ranged on Arathorn slid into place next to Eärnur, dark grey eyes flickering over the pensive face. "Nuri?"

Eärnur sighed at the name, his eyes unusually dark in the star light. The empath looked wearily in his direction before focusing on the river city once again.

"I do not know, Hallas." A gentle arm was thrown across his shoulders and Arathorn allowed himself to lean into the steady comfort that was his brother. "I do not know."

* * *

Ecthelion raced up the stairs, taking three at a time. He clenched the hilt of his sheathed sword in his hand so tightly the leather grip was actually causing his palm pain. Without hesitation he leapt up the top of the stairs, sprinting down the wide hallway that led to the rooms which belonged to the Princes. 

He pounded heavily on Aragon's door, but silence met his ears. Without hesitation Ecthelion pulled out his master key and unlocked the door. He yanked it open and rushed into the room – barely managing to miss the blade that swung from his head.

"By Eru, Ecthelion!" Aragorn cursed, grabbing the younger boy by the arm and pulling him to his feet. "Have you lost all common sense? I could have killed you!"

"Forgive my Lord, but I am afraid I have little time to spare. You and your brother's must come with me quickly."

"Something has happened to father." Ecthelion looked up in surprise at the sound of the voice – Eärnur and Arathorn stood tensely by Aragorn's bed. All three of the Princes were already dressed and armed.

"Eärnur felt it." Aragorn explained harshly as he bent down to finish tying his boots. "What has happened?"

"We're not quite sure milord. The King was found unconscious outside your mother's tower room. He is in his bed chamber currently with the healers." Ecthelion ran an unsteady hand through his hands. "It is without doubt who has caused this."

"The Dark Ones." Arathorn said through clenched teeth, as he finished tightening his belt. Ecthelion nodded.

"I fear that I have even graver news to bring." Once again Ecthelion fought the unease that came with holding the attention of some many of the royal line. "It seems that some sort of…" Ecthelion fought for the right word to use. "Bedevilment has been cast in your mother's room."

The three Princes stiffened and stared at him.

"Queen Onya is unharmed," The Steward added quickly. "But she will not speak – we have no idea what has happened."

Aragorn cursed loudly and stormed out of the room. "Come, I shall see to it that she speaks."

* * *

Lineage Key: 

- Denotes blood relation

**The Present Line of Kings:**

King Aragorn IV -married to- Onya of the Grey

- Crown Prince Aragorn V, 'Haleth'

- Prince Eärnur II, 'Nuri'

- Prince Arathorn IV, 'Hallas'

- Princess Lorien, 'Ana' -engaged to- Steward Ecthelion III

* * *

End of Chapter One. I really hope you guys like this! Tell me what you all think! Please no flames – only constructive criticism. I thrive on the stuff – almost all I know of grammar I've learned through reviews. 

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